


Any Way the Wind Blows

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Rodeo AU, Romance, cursing, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5621962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight seconds is all it takes to change your life, and in the end, it's all about whether or not you manage to hold on long enough to enjoy the ride.</p><p>Emma Swan is an ex-rodeo champion struggling to regain her title and raise her son in a small Texas town, all while maybe sort of falling in love with Regina Mills, who is actually incredibly bad at flirting. </p><p>Or, the Rodeo AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. McGintis, TX: Population 3,065

Emma grits her teeth, the hard ground coming up to meet her quickly.

Turning, she squeezes her eyes shut, bearing the brunt of the impact on her right side. The pain rockets through her side, and her head slams against the dirt, her Stetson skittering across the dusty ground. Slowly, Emma rolls to her front and breathes through the pain in her elbow.

The dirt coats her face, and the ground is blistering beneath her, owing to the summer afternoon heat beating down on the ranch. Emma sits up slowly, a long shadow approaching her, blotting out the sun. Crawling to retrieve her hat, she looks up, an upturned palm offered to her. She takes it, groaning as he helps her up.

“You know, you’re not actually supposed to fall on your ass,” Neal says, brushing his hands on his jeans, “so save that for the show. Seven seconds, by the way.”

Emma sighs, her breath hitching at the sharp pain in her elbow.

“Shit.”

Her eyes flick to Neal’s, a huff of discomfort escaping her when he probes her elbow too hard.

“Henry see that?” Emma bites out, wincing when Neal’s thumb hits that soft spot between the bones.

Neal shakes his head, nodding towards the distant barn, across the field and out past the corral fence.

“Ruby took him over to show him the new calf.”

At that, Emma breathes a sigh of relief, casting her eyes to the side, where Neal grins at her from beneath the brim of his black cattleman. Emma pretends not to notice the way his eyes glint with mirth. Ignoring him, Emma swipes at the back of her neck with her fingers, tendrils of her blonde hair sticking to the nape of her neck and replaces her hat. When Emma hitches herself up and over the corral fence, she gives the bronc a pat on the muzzle, offering a carrot for his trouble. A huff and nicker later, and Emma considers herself forgiven for falling on her ass.

Taking him by the reins, she leads Carter to the barn, the arid Texas desert stifling her. Apparently living in McGintis, Texas for a certain number of years does not make you immune to the heat, which Emma had persistently hoped for for that same amount of certain years. In the distance, she can see Ruby with Henry, and his unruly mop of hair is fluttering through a non-existent breeze as he runs towards Emma, his grin almost infectious, even as Emma moves to swipe at some of the dust on her shirt and jeans to no avail. Her spurs jingle as she hands Carter’s lead over to Neal, who ruffles Henry’s hair as the kid breezes past him, barreling towards Emma.

“Mom!” Henry exclaims, throwing his arms out.

“Henry!” Emma mocks, grinning when Henry scowls. She drops to her knees, hugging her son close, his t-shirt wet with sweat from the hot summer sun, and she pulls him in close, despite his wriggling excitement. She lets him go for a moment, holding him away as she plops her hat on his head, something she knows he likes, even if the hats slips down past his ears and almost covers his eyes, the sweaty brim dipping down to brush his nose, even as he tilts back to look at her.

“Did you see Neal’s new calf? I get to name her! Ruby said so!”

Emma grins at him, her thumb brushing at a sticky bit of juice that he hadn’t managed to get off since lunch earlier, saying “Oh, really? And what are you gonna name her, kid?”

Henry’s dark eyes widen in thought, like he’s been so wrapped up in the concept of having that much power that he hasn’t considered what it actually means. His eyes flicker, the wheels in his mind turning, and his eyes brighten, a crooked smile crossing his face.

“Snow White!”

“Snow White?” The kid’s so fuckin’ excited about it, Emma can only gape. _Snow White?_

“Yeah! She’s white as snow and plus,” Henry pauses, toeing the dirt with his tennis shoes, dust pushing into the holes next to his toes— _shit, new shoes soon—_ “maybe it’ll be good luck. Maybe we could get snow this year.”

Emma almost laughs at that, but then she remembers all the years that Henry’s sat up on Christmas Eve, nose pressed against the glass of his bedroom window, nearly shaking from anticipation, waiting for snow. Hell, it’s been so long since Emma’s been far enough north that _she’s_ forgotten what snow looks like.

“Yeah, okay, kid. Go on and let Ruby know. I’ll be right behind you.”

Henry gives her wild smile, his limbs flying out in that haphazard way that only a little kid can manage, and Emma just sits back on her ass, her head dropping to her knees, fingers of her left hand coming up to poke at her right elbow.

She hisses when she remembers why she’d been back in the saddle practicing in the first place, and feels the awkward way her elbow extends out. Tears spring to her eyes, and she blows a strand of blond hair out of her eyes, a muffled _fuck_ soft against her sleeve. In the distance, she watches as Neal sweeps Henry up by the arms, and Henry’s head whips back, a peal of laughter ringing through the still air of the day. The day she gives up rodeo will be a difficult day, but it isn’t today, and it hadn’t been that day six months ago when she’d pulled her right arm so badly that she’d had to forfeit the competition to Belle Gold, an inexperienced first-time competitor.

Emma shoves the feeling of defeat away, down deep where it can’t quite touch her, and peels herself up from the desert ground, hands brushing against the denim of her jeans habitually.

Eventually, when Henry’s had enough excitement for the day and he’s tuckered out enough to slump onto Neal’s sofa with Emma’s hat askew on his head, tipped down over his face like those old cowboy movies he’s seen so many of, Emma finds herself outside on the porch, Neal and Ruby nestled close on the porch swing, Emma clutching the neck of a Budweiser in the plastic picnic chair that is Unofficially-Totally-Hers. She takes a swallow of alcohol, the remainder of the six-pack between the three of them on the small round table next to Ruby on the swing.

“What the fuck am I doing?” Emma says out loud, hand coming up to bat a gnat away.

“Drinkin’ beer,” Neal snorts at his own joke, and lifts his own bottle to his lips.

“Fuck off. You know what I mean.” Emma glares at him, but the angry glare doesn’t work as well as she hopes it will, and Neal grins from around the mouth of his bottle.

Ruby leans forward, her breath reeking of beer, and Emma waits patiently for her eyes to focus.

“I honestly have no fucking clue, Emma.” Ruby giggles, and Emma’s lips curls in disgust as Ruby laughs throatily, and Emma rolls her eyes. The bug zapper snaps, an unsuspecting and now very dead moth falling on the porch. The swing creaks when Neal leans over Ruby to snatch up another bottle, the hiss of the cap snapping off filling the silence.

“If we knew what the fuck anybody was doing, we wouldn’t be here.” Neal gestures to the sweeping land, and even in the dark, Emma can tell where the brush stands out against the bleak desert. Emma suspects that the sentiment makes more sense to Neal than it does to her, so she smiles and swallows her last mouthful of beer, pretending she understands.

They pass the rest of the evening in silence, and when Emma pleads tiredness, neither Neal or Ruby protest; instead the sounds of whispers and giggles reach Emma’s ears, even on the living room floor. Emma drops with a huff next to the sofa where Henry’s sleeping soundly, and checks to make sure his shoes are off before she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

 

When Emma wakes in the morning, it’s to the blare of Sunday morning cartoons and Henry two feet away, munching on Fruit Loops way too loud. Her mouth tastes— she runs her tongue across her teeth— like she’d had too much beer last night, and she sits up, smiling as Henry grins over at her, a thin trail of milk leaking down his chin.

“Hi, Mom, I made you some too.” The kid beams at Emma, shaking his hair out of his eyes and gesturing over at a bowl of soggy cereal that’s sitting on the table by the end of the sofa.

“Thanks, kid,” Emma gets up, relishing the pop in her back and running her hand through Henry’s soft hair as she reaches over and grabs the bowl, lifting the spoon to her lips as she joins Henry on the couch, a spring digging into her back uncomfortably.

“Neal or Ruby up yet?”

A shake of Henry’s head has her up as soon as she finishes the cereal, and she gathers her car keys from the counter where she’d abandoned them shortly after tucking Henry in, and takes her bowl to the sink, scrubbing it out. The kink in her side, regretfully, is still there and it’s a wonder she’s not stiff as a board— combining yesterday’s throw with the luxury of the floor was not as good an idea as it seemed, apparently. Still, it beat driving. There was no way in hell she would drive with alcohol in her system, let alone with Henry.

That lack of judgment is reserved for the few stupid teens of McGintis on weekend nights, who’s hijinks kept MPD very busy on a regular basis.

Dropping a kiss to Henry’s forehead, Emma pretends not to hear the groan as her blonde mane blocks the television.

“Let’s go, kid. I gotta get you home and showered and dropped off at David’s shop. I can’t be late again.”

Emma sighs when Henry frowns at her, mid-bite, and she leans in close, stage-whispering as if she’s revealing her recipe for mac n’ cheese, “Look, I know. Tell you what, I’ll let you put your feet on the dash.”

That seems to elicit enough enthusiasm from Henry to speed up his eating and he shoves his bowl, milk untouched, into his mother’s hands. Emma laughs at his harried attempt to shove his shoes on and she sets the bowl into the sink, casting a glance down the hall, where the wallpaper is yellowed and peeling moreso than in the rest of the house, waiting for Ruby or Neal to stir. When it’s clear that they’re still not up, Emma shakes her head, fiddling with the keys in her hand.

Henry piles into the rickety truck cab with all the enthusiasm of a kid who’s going to Disney Land, and Emma laughs when he plants his feet firmly up on the dash and stares at her, almost daring her to say something. Emma snatches the Stetson from Henry’s head and plants it firmly on her own head, running her fingers through her hair and checking her rear view mirror. After a couple of tries, the truck starts up, it’s engine turning with a screech, and Emma tries to pretend she doesn’t hear it.

August in Texas is the worst. Ever. And Emma lived in Mexico for like, two weeks once. Yeah, it fucking sucks.

McGintis is tiny, the kind of small town that people think of when they think of small towns, except there’s less religion and more assholery. But Emma doesn’t mind it. What she does mind is the single stoplight in the dead center of the one road town that _never_ turns green when she needs it to.

She hopes Lucas doesn’t bust her ass for being late. Emma being Emma, knows that her mouth won’t keep her out of trouble long enough for Ms. E. Lucas, the meanest damn cattle rancher this side of Austin, to give her a proper excusal. That old woman is a fucking pain in Emma’s ass, but really, Emma can’t help but thank her. She’d given her so much in the beginning.

Emma casts a glance over at Henry, only to find him sleeping, face pressed against the seatbelt, and his face slack, mouth open. Emma feels a stab of shame when she looks at him, and it’s sharper now than any other time. He’s the sweetest little boy, gentle, laid back, and it pains Emma to think that she can’t give him everything he deserves. He deserved a hell of a lot more than Emma can give him.

The blaring of a car horn behind her snaps her out of her thoughts, and she floors the gas, truck jerking wildly out of the idle it’d been in. They pass by Nolan’s Tackle Shop, Geppeto’s Saddles, and a few other standard small-town shops, including a specialty souvenir shop no one ever actually visits that sells firefly jars to people who can't figure out that a regular jar works just fine, and a gas station before finally feeling the smooth highway under the tires for a few minutes.

Emma turns when they hit the pathway, an old sign signaling that the “McGintis Apartments” are “the best in McGintis”, despite the fact that the complex is literally the only one in town. Or within fifty miles.

The pathway is gravel, and Henry is rocked out of his sleepy dozing when they roll up to the cluster of building, the desert hills offering the best view to its residents.

Dirt, dirt, and oh, more fucking dirt.

The buildings themselves aren’t in awful condition, and Emma would even call them quaint, but for the bone-dry swimming pool that hasn’t been filled for who-the-hell-even-knows-how-long and the dilapidated white iron gate that’s more a hazard to its residents than a deterrent to anyone at this point. Emma parks in the open lot, glad that Mr. Ford F150 hasn’t stolen her spot again, like last time. Last time, she’d had to park in the dirt. Fuckin’ cactus.  

Henry bolts towards the apartments, snatching her keys away before she really has the chance to hand them over. Emma makes the short, but actually very unexpectedly painful, journey up to the second floor apartment that she pays way too much for, and pauses at the door. She can hear Henry already starting the shower, and she kicks the door shut, surveying her home.

_How the fuck did she end up here?_

Saturday morning’s dishes are still on the coffee table, and Henry’s latest comic book is open to where he’d left off, and Emma makes quick work of the dishes. When she passes into her own room, she shuts the door with a click, peeling her shirt up gingerly.

A mural of purples and greens and blues paints her side, and Emma curses. She should have just stayed on the horse. She doesn’t need to look to know that her already bad elbow is pretty fucked up. Her hair is presentable, so she pulls it back, braiding it with quick precision. Emma takes in her tired eyes, green dulled by the exhaustion she can still feel. She looks away and doesn’t look back.

She tucks her button down into her jeans, hoping that the white won’t stain today. She’s gone through three white shirts in the past month, because when you work on a ranch, there’s just the tiniest chance of getting dirty. Her black Stetson is in place and Emma offers one look at the mirror, smiling half-heartedly at her reflection, pretending like maybe it’s comforting to her, before stepping out to start her day.

Eight hours later, she’s flat on her back, again— _seriously, what the hell?_ — and she's looking at the greatest pair of legs she’s ever seen.

_Who even has legs that sexy?_


	2. Take A Back Road (On the Way to Somewhere New)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I’m leaving, Mother.'
> 
> Regina can see the headlines on the Phoenix Daily Sun now— Regina Mills, Daughter of Millionaire Henry Mills, Pronounced Insane— and it’s ridiculous really, how much courage it’s taken her to walk away." 
> 
> Regina leaves Arizona and meets someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've combed over this second chapter about seven times, so if there are any visible errors, they're entirely my fault.
> 
> Thanks to wildimagings for the encouragement, and thank you all for your enthusiastic response to the first chapter!

“I’m leaving, Mother.”

Regina can see the headlines on the Phoenix Daily Sun now— ** _Regina Mills, Daughter of Millionaire Henry Mills, Pronounced Insane_** — and it’s ridiculous really, how much courage it’s taken her to walk away.

Her mother is protesting this ‘outburst’ vehemently, her voice high and shrill in a way that only Cora Mills can achieve, even through the phone. At thirty-two years old, Regina Mills is ready to strike out on her own. She has— _had_ — a boring job with the family company, and while people would surely kill to get her position, Regina never liked the high status it afforded her. Maybe there had been a time when she had, when her father was still breathing and her mother was less of a nuisance, but times change, people die, and other people just get more annoying.

“ _Regina Mills, you answer me this second! I will not have you—”_

Case in point.

Regina sighs, thumb wavering over the end call button before pressing firmly. With a hiss of bitter dislike, she lets the phone clatter onto the granite countertop, casting one last look around her bare kitchen. She groans, letting her head fall into her hand.

Everything’s packed up, and what won’t fit in the back of her beloved cherry red mustang is crammed into a storage facility just outside of Goodyear.

She’s really doing this, and the thought hits her with such force that Regina almost doubles over with the intensity. Luckily, her thoughts come to an abrupt halt as the front door creaks open with a dull thud as it meets the wall.

“What. The. Fuck, Regina?” A voice rings out in the cavernous foyer, and Regina sighs.

Kathryn comes careening around the corner, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders, pretty face contorted in anger. The blonde’s lips are pursed, her handbag swinging against her hip as she stops, taking in her bare surroundings. Blue eyes flit over to the counter, where a butcher’s block used to sit, and to the island where Regina stands, hip cocked, waiting.

“What is this, Regina? What are you doing? Your assistant told me you quit! I was going to take you to that new restaurant that we’ve been thinking about and I stopped by your office and they said you quit, but that’s ludicrous, you wouldn’t just quit—” Kathryn’s eyes widen almost comically, her mouth shaping into an ‘o’, “but… but you did, didn’t you?”

Regina smiles, the motion tight and insincere, a cursory lift of her lips as she turns away, bracing herself for the inevitable.

“What the hell are you thinking, Regina? You can’t quit! You love that company, your father—”

“Left me most of the shares, Kathryn,” Regina dares, voice flinty, “I’d rather quit than be under my mother’s thumb, and that’s exactly where I’ll be if I don’t.”

“But you— you’re _moving_? Why? What’s wrong with Goodyear? Did your mother say something, because I’ll call her right now—” Regina’s eyes widen and she grips her friend’s wrist in her own, phone halfway out of her purse.

“Please, don’t.”

Regina begs, and her mouth forms strangely around the words, her voice wavering miserably, and the _please_ is enough to stop her friend in her tracks, enough to make the other woman look at her with concern.

“I’d rather be somewhere else, Kathryn. I’ve let this company and my mother make too many decisions in my life, and I’d rather make one for a change. Consider it fulfilling my New Year’s resolution.”

Regina crosses her arms, pressing her palms into the soft cotton of the loose shirt that she’s wearing, one of her favorites. Her fingers clutch into the fabric almost habitually, and she breathes through the sudden panic that grips her. Kathryn’s mouth drops open minutely, and Regina can see her mind whirring away.

“Okay, that I get, but why Texas? I mean, what’s in _Austin_?” Her friend leers, the last word dripping from her lips like something foul.

“McGintis,” Regina corrects, breathing out a heavy sigh.

“Whatever, McGintis, okay? The point is why?” The blonde is agitated, foot tapping out a staccato beat against the marble tile of the kitchen.

Regina grows hot under the scrutiny of her friends gaze and her cheeks are aflame as her face tightens into a look of disapproval.

“I don’t _know,_ okay? I just don’t know. It’s just— I need to get out. I need to get out of Arizona, away from the company, away from my mother. I just need peace and quiet. For a little while, anyways.” Regina implores her silently, her eyes widening as she speaks, willing her friend to understand.

When Kathryn simply stares, she adds, “It’s not permanent. My father had a ranch out there that’s mine now, or at least some property and a house, and it seems like a place that I could really… figure myself out.”

Despite the fact that Regina has never actually been there, she’s caught a glimpse of a photo or two of her father on the porch of some old farmhouse, painted yellow and white, a wide expanse of desert stretching out behind the house, and Regina recalls the loopy scrawl at the bottom of the polaroid, labelled, _McGintis, TX 1987._ Regina can just imagine the solace she might find there, the smell of rich country air, and the burn of the desert sun on her back, and she very nearly lets her eyes slide closed at the thought of it.

Kathryn snorts, tucking her phone away finally, and that motion alone is enough to rip the fantasy away, and it fades into background of her mind.

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the Hallmark soul-searchy bullshit, Regina. So, have you packed everything?”

Regina grins a little, enthusiasm sparked by the way her friend seems to accept the change.

“I have one last box to fill, and then I’m leaving.”

Kathryn crosses the distance between the two of them, tucking her friend into a lasting hug that has Regina returning the affection almost instantly, despite the fact that hugs are not a regular occurrence between the two of them.

“You have got to stop watching those Hallmark movies, Regina,” her friend sighs into her shoulder.

* * *

 

An hour later, something tells Regina that Kathryn is one of the only people that _will_ miss her, and the thought makes her wince. The August sun beats down on her car as she speeds across the Arizona desert, the open top of the car doing very little to add any relief. Instead, the breeze that lifts her hair back from her face, dark hair flicking in the wind, is warm, almost too warm, and sweat sticks to her collar bone.

Eventually, the air is cooler as she flies past the state line, and then she’s in New Mexico and maybe it doesn’t look very different from Arizona but something _feels_ different, and Regina breathes a sigh of relief at the change in the air.

She stops off at a Motel 8 when her eyelids are too heavy, the bright yellow neon sign a stark contrast to the gathering darkness. The building is stuffy inside, and the receptionist greets her with a bored, unenthused “hello”, and snaps her bubble gum. Regina’s too tired to take notice and spends the night sweating in her sleep, the ancient air conditioner no match for the sticky August heat.

Regina sets out from the New Mexico border into Texas early the next morning, and watches as the sunrise stretches its lazy fingers across the interstate, pink lighting up the desert in a pretty myriad of oranges and yellows, the breeze barely ruffling her coiffed hair.

Six hours later, she’s appreciating the scenery much less than she had been, and she’s definitely cursing Google Maps, because _who the fuck turns onto a dirt path with no street sign?_ and it’s then that she decides that she’s tired of driving.

A wooden sign hanging over the dirt road tells Regina that this is Tumbleweed Ranch, (and Regina scowls up at the sign for no other reason than she is very lost, and very upset about it— better to blame the sign than admit she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere).

 _Who names their ranch Tumbleweed Ranch?_ Regina ponders, before deciding that the owner of the ranch in question is simply very bad at naming things.

Except Regina’s pretty sure that she doesn’t care anymore, because then blessedly, she spots someone standing in the bed of a nearby truck, the green paint glinting in the hot sun. Regina almost launches herself out of the mustang, her ankles almost rolling in her heels.

_New shoes. Practicality is a must, apparently._

The dips in the ground take a little skill to navigate, and Regina steps carefully over a pile of manure, nose wrinkling at the thought of stepping in that.

When she’s close enough to call out, Regina chances a glance at the lone occupant of the truck bed and discovers that a blonde braid has slipped out from beneath the brim of a black hat, and sweat stains the back of a white button down. With a grunt, the woman lifts a bale of hay and Regina’s mouth falls open in surprise at the strength it must take to lift that. The cords of the woman’s muscles ripple in her forearms and Regina has a front row seat to the way the woman’s ass ripples in those jeans, which is just— Not even twenty-four hours outside of civilized company and she’s already ogling a stranger’s ass.

Great.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” Regina calls out in an attempt to halt her thoughts before they spin out of control any further.

She expects many things, she expects that the woman will turn, hop down from the bed of the truck and frown at her for interrupting her Very Important Hay Hauling, or that she’ll just ignore her in favor of continuing the Very Important Hay Hauling to which Regina would not object for various reasons, but instead the woman spins on the spot, sun-bleached braid whipping out as she does. She steps out towards Regina, her booted foot connecting with exactly nothing.

It only takes half a second for the woman to understand her miscalculation, and her hands fly out to stop her fall, but the three feet to the ground is very quick to meet her front, and Regina’s flying forward an instant too late, ankle rolling uncomfortably when her heel catches in the desert soil.

“Shit!” The woman rolls onto her back, black hat strewn some feet away, and Regina bends over to check her over. Dust covers the woman’s front, and her chest heaves with the effort of breathing through what Regina expects to be a great deal of pain. The mystery woman is most certainly attractive, even by conventional standards, but Regina finds that there’s something about the way the woman holds herself, even if she _is_ currently splayed out on the dirt, that screams genuine. Her jaw twitches, though from aggravation or pain, Regina cannot tell, and her eyes squint against the bright sunlight as Regina stands over her.

“Are you okay?”

Regina’s eyes are wide, searching the woman’s face for any sign of intense pain. Instead, she’s laughing and the laugh is throaty, ridiculous even, and Regina flushes as green eyes stare up at her, flicking to her chest to take in an ample display of cleavage before meeting her eyes. A smile splits the woman’s face, wider than Regina expects and Regina’s suddenly conscious of the low-cut silk blouse she chose that morning, and she’s very, _very_ conscious of the way the sweat makes the white shirt stick to the woman’s torso.

“I really should stop falling,” the blonde remarks, removing a glove and taking Regina’s outstretched hand in her own and pushing herself up with a wince, calloused palms brushing against soft skin. Regina grins as the woman scoops up her hat, the shadow darkening her face as she pulls it down over her fly-away hair, a droplet of sweat rolling down her temple from beneath the brim.

“Is this a habit of yours, falling in front of strangers?” Regina offers conversationally, trying to concentrate on anything besides the way her hand is buzzing with the feel of a dirt-caked, calloused hand and strong fingers.

“Not usually. I only fall for the pretty ones,” The blonde quirks a narrow eyebrow, pointedly giving Regina a once over. Regina flushes and her cheeks are warm and it’s not the Texas sun, and she struggles to keep eye contact with the rancher. Her palms are warm and clammy when she clenches her fists at her sides, and she tugs at her skirt, smoothing it in the same motion.

Regina clears her throat, and her eyes rake over jean-clad legs, up across a narrow torso and up to meet green eyes, and she remembers why she’d gone to the trouble of getting out of the car in the first place.

“I’m— I’m looking for McGintis and I think I’m lost,” Regina stutters out and watches as pink lips curl into a half-smile. The spurs on the stranger’s boots jingle as she kicks at the dirt, and Regina huffs in disapproval, hoping that the puff of dirt isn’t quite enough to dust up her nice skirt.

“Actually, all you gotta do, ma’am,” the blonde says, the smirk not quite disappearing, “is turn out from the ranch and take the highway west. It’s a small town, but in this, you can’t really miss it.”

Thumbs find their way to belt loops and Regina’s not entirely sure when she starting looking _there_.

Alarmed, Regina looks up to meet the woman’s gaze, and the smirk is back and wider than before and Regina’s definitely too late and her helper has most definitely noticed, judging by the glint in her emerald eyes, and _my, she has very pretty eyes_ and Regina feels a blush creeping up her neck.

“Thank you so much,” she breathes out, and it sounds awful, like she can’t breathe and really, she can’t because the woman is just staring at Regina and Regina is just now noticing exactly _how_ green her eyes really are, but she presses on.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” This next bit is stronger, and the effort this simple act of control takes is very nearly unbelievable. Her voice remains firm, and Regina is relieved.

The woman raises a hand in front of her, palm out and it takes a moment for Regina to understand that she’s offering to shake. The callouses are rough against Regina’s skin, and Regina pulls away first, too soon to be considered polite, her palm tingling.

“Emma. Emma Swan.”

“Emma,” Regina smiles, painted lips folding around the name, tasting it carefully and letting it escape in a quick breath, and she’s pretty sure she sees a flicker of _something_ in the blonde’s eyes, and whatever it is, she wants to see it again, “thank you. I’m Regina.”

Emma smiles, the crook of her lips awkward and stiff, like she hasn’t _really_ smiled in a while, and Regina’s heart stutters at that, and she wants her to smile always. Regina turns away, feeling Emma watching her walking away.

“See you around, Regina.” There’s something about the way the blonde calls her name that has Regina’s pulse roaring in her ears and she’s struck by a sudden wave of sheer want, the _need_ to hear her voice again, to hear her name fall from those lips over and over again, and Regina is not quite sure what this means, and she’s not sure she cares.

Regina smiles over her shoulder, eyes raking over Emma’s form one last time, committing it to memory.

If she puts a little extra movement in her hips, Emma doesn’t say anything, and if Emma notices when she takes a little too long to pull away from the ranch, she doesn’t mention that either.

* * *

 

The house is decrepit, almost falling to ruins in the desert sun when she pulls up, shifting the mustang into park with just the slightest grind of gears. The two levels stand out against otherwise flat, seamless land, and Regina wrinkles her nose at the peeling yellow paint.

Stepping out into the dusty yard, Regina takes in the way the white picket fence doesn’t stand quite straight, and she looks out at the land, dry and unkempt. Brush and cacti dot the landscape and Regina cannot fathom why Daddy ever left her this. Even so, she hitches her suitcase up to her hip, hefting it up the uneven, sagging steps, carefully avoiding the cracked banister, and fumbles for the keys for what feels like an eternity.

The porch is hot, and even the wooden roof can’t shield her from the heat of the yellow August evening, and Regina feels a drop of sweat trace its way beneath the collar of her silk blouse. It takes a few good pushes with her shoulder to get the door open, and Regina stumbles heavily into the house when the door gives way. Her heels thump noisily on the wooden floor, and it takes a moment for her vision to adjust.

When it does, Regina decides it would be easier to go straight back to Goodyear and live out the rest of her days in the seclusion of her nice, neat home, marble floors and cathedral ceilings included and simply ignore her mother forever.

After twenty years of neglect and the unkindness of the Texas desert, this place is like an old memory, forgotten, shoved away in the corner of someone’s mind, left to collect dust and spider webs. Cobwebs hang from the fan in the living room, and Regina shudders. It reminds her of the only old haunted house attraction she’d ever ventured to, when she was fifteen she’d snuck out to visit it with Kathryn. White sheets drape across faint outlines of furniture, and beneath the dusty drop cloths, Regina expects she’ll find ancient furniture, dirty and threadbare from disuse.

Instead, she steps in and sets her luggage down with a _thunk_. Dust swirls in the air, painting a swirl of gold in the living room when the light catches just right, as she unveils a couch she’s sure hasn’t seen the light of day for ages. She works like this, methodical in her movements, careful not to disturb the air too much, as if too much action might wake the ghosts that are surely lying in wait. The house is quiet, and when the sun finally sets, Regina fumbles for the light switch. The lights buzz to life suddenly, a crackle of electricity running through the air, and Regina inhales, and pretends she can still smell Daddy’s cologne in the air. Her fingers run over the leather couch that lies facing the large fireplace, where a few trophies and more than one photo of herself and Daddy rest on the mantle. A closer inspection reveals that the trophies are hers, from her younger riding years before her mother had put a stop to it.

Regina shuts her eyes against the intrusive memory, unwilling to let the recollection of the screaming match her parents had gotten into that night all those years ago taint her time here.

This is not about her parents, nor the painful memories that occasionally come clawing their way to the surface, this is about all of the things she wants to do in life, and all of the things she needs.

This is Regina’s now and she is determined to call it a home.

Even if it is a death trap.

When she can bear to tear herself away from the lure of the photos and the memories that go with them, Regina moves through the rooms, examining the yellowing linoleum of the kitchen and the appliances that look as though they might break at any point, and when she treads lightly up the stairs, she makes a note that the fifth stair is in need of repair. The bedrooms aren’t stellar either, and the rooms smell like dust and mothballs. The stench sends her to the windows, which she pries open by hand, albeit not easily, eager to air out the house.

She sleeps in the living room that first night, and it’s only when she’s just dozed off that she hears a great _crack_ in the distance and her eyes fly open just in time to see plaster dust shake free from the ceiling.

Regina simply closes her eyes, frustration boiling below the surface. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a newer author to the fandom, I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions! Concrit is always welcome, so please don't be shy!


	3. Skills Include Heavy Lifting and Important Conversations With Hot People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emma staves off unwelcome advances, gets unfairly interrogated by Neal, and is completely unprepared to run into Regina again but does anyway. 
> 
> At least neither of them are on the ground this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued enthusiasm for this story! I'm so pleased to hear that so many are enjoying it! Please feel free to continue leaving your thoughts below, they make my day. If you want to talk about this fic or my other two, I'm on tumblr as a-tardis-at-downton.
> 
> (Factoid: I learned the difference between hay and straw for this chapter.)

He’s smirking and she knows it. What’s more, he _will not give up,_ and while the notion might have once struck her as romantic, Emma is not a starry-eyed teenager with a hopeless weakness for the accent. Or the hair.

Or any weakness concerning Killian Jones at all.

Emma hates him. She does. She stabs the pile of straw forcefully with the pitchfork, and she wishes it was his face instead.

Her muscles bunch with the weight of the load on the tool, and she hefts it over to the side, layering the left side of the long stall with a fresh bed of straw. The rustle of her work is the only response she’ll bless him with today. Her blue shirt sticks to the small of her back, and it’s irritating.

“So, Swan, do you want to or not?”

_Not as irritating as this._

Emma swipes her brow with her forearm, turning away from the stable and leaning against the stall door. The pitchfork abandoned quickly, her fingers curling around the back of her neck. Killian stands not far from her, and he’s almost uncomfortably close. His hip is cocked, and a smirk quirks his lips. Dark hair is sticking up every which way, and on Henry it’s cute, but on her fellow employee, it’s far from adorable, especially when considering the smug look in his eyes. His eyes dip low, where a sheen of sweat covers the open expanse of her collarbone, before stopping where the buttons close around her tank, concealing her cleavage. His black boots are shining in the low light of the barn, and Emma sighs. Killian’s still too close, and his confident smile is enough to make Emma roll her eyes.

She hopes he doesn’t notice.

“Seriously, we’re at work. You’re asking me out right now?” She manages to say this with only a little irritation in her tone, enough to pass it off as exertion, which she considers to be very impressive, considering how much she loathes his continuous attempts at wooing her. Emma hopes the incredulous look on her face is enough to discourage him.

No such luck.

Killian grins, moving closer to lean into Emma’s space.

Emma shoves off of the wall and moves past him, the shuffle of straw filling the heavy silence. She can feel Killian behind her, and she resists the urge to run away, instead gritting her teeth and shoving a last bale of straw across the floor with more force than necessary to rest it against the wall.

“So, is that a yes?”

Emma stops mid-bend, turning with the bale ties still in her gloved hands. Her back aches a little with the strain because being angry at an insistent Killian Jones is causing her to definitely violate Heavy Lifting 101, and really it’s worth it to watch Jones pale a little at what she hopes is a very scary look on her face. She stands then, grunting, and pushes the bale at Killian and wedging her gloved hands out from the bale. She pushes past him, leaving him no choice but to catch the heavy load.

Emma smiles when she hears him grunt with the weight.

Emma’s boots are muffled against the wooden floor of the barn, but she turns back and watches as Killian dumps the bale haphazardly in the corner of the stall.

“Try a little harder next time, Hook. In fact, here’s a tip for you: be less of an ass. Oh, and that stall? It’s full of shit, a little like you.”

Killian looks up, outrage twisting his face into an ugly image of bared teeth and reddened skin as he blusters for some comeback. Emma lets the barn door creak open to the tune of growling curses, and she almost laughs.

Almost.

Instead, she smiles when Neal looks up from where he’s kneeling on the desert ground, tamping a post into the dry dirt.

“You know, you could be a little nicer about it,” Neal shrugs, and continues, avoiding Emma’s glare, “or he could be a man and just take no for an answer. It’s not like he’s your type anyway.”

Emma just grins, holding the post in place as Neal drives it a little deeper. From here, Emma can see Miss Lucas stomping towards them.

“What’d you do, Neal, get in a fight with Ruby again?”

Emma laughs and Neal whips his head up, hat snatched up off his head so quick Emma might have thought he was a magician. His grubby fingers smooth out his messy hair as best they can, and he stands straighter when the old woman stops in front of them, scowl so deep Emma’s sure she was born with it. Emma’s still holding the post, and she nods at the ranch owner curtly in greeting.

“Miss Swan, how do you feel about helpin’ set up for the rodeo?” Emma looks up at this, eyebrows furrowing of their own accord. The woman's drawl is enough to make her pay attention.

The old woman regards Emma over her glasses, and even though Emma is a good six inches taller than the woman at least, she’s worked for her long enough to know that no is not an answer she likes to hear. She’s been on the wrong side of enough reprimands from Eugenia Lucas, and she isn’t looking forward to another anytime soon.

The practiced folding of arms and the steel in her boss’s eyes reminds Emma of her Mrs. Haskins, third grade teacher and torture expert, and Emma swallows instinctively, resisting the urge to take a timeout.

“Isn’t that this weekend?” she says instead, because she can’t think of anything else to say.

“It is,” Ruby’s grandmother says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world (and really, it is, because it’s all the people of McGintis have been talking about for the past month), “and I expect your help setting it up. It _is_ on my land, after all, and the last time I checked, you _do_ work for me.”

Emma wonders who pissed her off today. Probably Jefferson, she decides, when she thinks about it.

“It’s only half-days,” Lucas offers, and smiles suddenly, which makes Emma worry a bit because she _never_ smiles, “and tell Henry I’m making cookies. He’s welcome to come along.”

At that, Emma’s heart stops beating so fast.

“Thank you, Miss Lucas,” Emma tips her head at the older woman who offers a wry smile. When the old woman turns to Neal, however, her weathered face is all stone.

“And you, do _not_ make me listen to Ruby goin’ on about how you can’t do them damn dishes to save your life, or I’ll make sure your life ain’t _worth_ savin’, boy.”

With that, Miss Lucas stomps away, and Emma turns to Neal, who’s visibly nervous, and just waits for him to look at her, her lips pulled into a smirk.

“Seriously, dishes?”

Neal goes red and gets on his knees again, his neck flushing in the hot summer sun. After a moment of wrestling with the post, Neal leans back on his toes, looking up at Emma from beneath the brim of his hat.

“How was I supposed to know that the crystal didn’t go in the dishwasher?” He mumbles and Emma just laughs, holding the post steady.

* * *

 

When the sun’s dipping down below the horizon and Neal’s wiping his hands on his jeans to no avail, Emma leans against the newly erected enclosure, her leg coming up to rest on the gated area. She hefts herself up onto the top pole, kicking out her muddy boot at Neal where he’s standing near her. He grunts when her boot leaves mud on his shirt. With one last look at their day’s work, Neal clambers over the fence and drops onto the dirt, dust clouding behind his boots.

Emma follows him to his truck and climbs in, her fingers searching out the radio when he starts the old yellow Ford, the engine humming to life much quicker than her own truck. Neal’s Stetson is crammed in between them, and Emma taps along with George Strait as they pull out of the driveway, trundling down to the highway.

“Are you gonna get out of this hellhole anytime soon, Em?” Neal asks casually, except the question is the furthest from casual it gets, and Emma scoffs, watching as the brush flits by.

Neal needs to wash his truck.

“You need to wash your truck, Cassidy.”

Neal huffs a sigh of frustration.

“Come on, Emma, you’re not happy. We all know it.” Emma tries not to notice when he looks at her from the corner of his eye. He squints into the sun and pulls the visor down with a creak as he waits.

“It’s only a matter of time before Henry figures it out too.”

Emma picks at the vinyl seat and listens to Alan Jackson croon through the tinny speakers. She refuses to reply on principle. She and Neal had never been good at feelings. She can count on one hand the number of times she’d ever admitted any sort of deep truth about herself to the man in question, and three of those five had been when she was drunk.

“Look, I know. I know what I have to do, and it’s mostly ignoring you right now,” Emma supplies with a smirk and Neal forces a harsh breath out through his nose.

The Wooden Boy is lined with bikes in its dirt lot, a few trucks and cars too, and Emma hops out when Neal stops to drop her off before he parks, simply saying he’ll wait outside.

Her boots kick up clouds of dust as she half-jogs to the door, yanking it open with a tug. The smoke hits her almost as fast as the honkytonk country blaring through the place, and Emma makes a mental note to tell August that he should probably turn it down because it’s seven o’ clock on a Monday night and she’d like to hear what she’s ordering. Making her way past the press of people leaning against the bar, Emma lets her eyes adjust as she walks. The low light of the bar is only helped by the glow of the neon lights on the wall behind the bar boasting Bud Light and Budweiser and strangely enough, Stella Artois and some other foreign beer Emma can’t even think of how to pronounce. She’ll ask August how to pronounce it later. She leans against the bar to wave at August who glances over from a conversation with someone Emma can’t quite see through the throng of people.

He gestures wildly, beckoning her, and Emma hops off of the stool, knees popping slightly. She winces when she gets an elbow to the shoulder.

Mumbling a half-hearted apology that she’s sure the mystery elbower and genuinely rude man doesn’t actually hear, Emma leans up against the bar, eyes travelling to her friend, where he’s laughing at something his conversation partner said.

“Emma!” August exclaims, whipping the towel over his shoulder and throwing out his hands, “this is—”

“Regina,” Emma breathes, and when Regina herself turns to look at her, the woman’s eyes light up in recognition and Emma watches in delight as her lips tilt into a smile, “hi."

“Emma, Mr. Booth here was just mentioning you,” the brunette speaks, her rough voice low in the static hum of the bar. Someone laughs and Emma blinks dumbly.

The woman is wearing a grey blouse that displays a generous amount of olive flesh and it’s very difficult to not look because Emma remembers quite clearly what she looked like above Emma just two days ago. Regina adjusts herself on the stool, and picks an invisible piece of lint off of black slacks, and her hair’s falling around her shoulders in a way that just _dares_ Emma to run her fingers through the dark hair—

August laughs and Emma glares at him.

“All good things I hope,” Emma smiles, and she leans against the barstool, her foot resting on the bottom rung.

Regina laughs at that, her hair falling into her face as she bows her head, low chuckle vibrating through the air and Emma’s breath catches and she thinks maybe that sound is better than sex. Coughing to cover her— well, whatever she’s covering-- Emma looks over at August. His brown eyes narrow playfully, his stubble bunching as he grins.

“What _has_ he been telling you?” Emma’s suspicious to say the least, because the last time August had mentioned her to a patron, it’d ended in a Very Bad Date and escape out of a restaurant bathroom window. Not that he knew that. Emma will never tell him how it went, not even as her dying confession.

“That you’re a good handyman,” Regina’s eyes flick down to Emma’s hips, and Emma almost squirms under the heat of her gaze, “well, handy _woman_.”

Emma swallows and decides that this whole thing is very, very bad for her blood pressure. Her heart does a funny little dance at the look.

Regina looks up, and the heat is gone, her heated stare replaced by kind, curious eyes.

“Who’s lookin’?” Emma asks, and she wants to curl up and die because _of course_ she _is, why else would she be asking?_ and Regina’s laughing again and she really needs to stop because Emma’s about to have a heart attack.

“Me,” Regina answers, and Emma chances a questioning glance at August, who has conveniently busied himself with pint glasses, _the ass,_ “my roof caved in the other night, and I’ve tried calling up The Roof Boys in Austin, but they can’t get anyone out this far for two weeks. August said you were the best in town.”

The amount of pleading in the woman’s voice is such that if she was asking Emma to dance naked on the bar, she would. Not that she would admit it.

“Well,” Emma starts calmly, “if you’d like, I can take a look at the damage tomorrow after I get off of work and we can discuss, er— payments and timeframes…”

Emma can totally carry on Important Conversations With Hot People. It’s an acquired skill. She should put it on her resume.

“—okay?” Regina's looking at her expectantly, smile tentative and her eyebrows raised slightly, as if she's waiting.

Or not.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” _Nice job, Emma._

“I said, would three o’ clock tomorrow be okay?” Regina retrieves a pen from her purse and scribbles out her address on a spare napkin, the wet ring of alcohol staining it amber.

Emma grins at that, and Regina seems to take that as affirmation. Palming the napkin, Emma flags August down and he meanders back over sporting a telling grin. She’ll wipe it off of his face later when she reminds him he still owes her big for the last job she’d done for him.

“What can I get you, Emma?”

Emma nods at Regina, catching her smile (her heart does that Thing again— it’s probably a medical condition) and turns to August.

“Four burgers to go, and one of whatever the lady’s havin’.”

August chuckles, pouring a G&T and serving it with a flourish. Emma tosses him a crumpled twenty from the back pocket of her work jeans.

“From a secret admirer,” he mock-whispers, and Emma is _totally_ not aware of the way Regina looks up at Emma through her lashes and Emma turns away, her jaw jutting out as she covertly looks over at Regina, who’s sipping her drink like a fancy ass tea or some shit and _oh, no,_ she’s screwed.

Emma watches for a second longer as Regina purses her red lips around the straw and—

“Here you go!”

Before she knows it, her quiet ruminations are ruined as her customary order of four greasy burgers are plopped in front of her, the to-go bag stained with grease.

“Thanks, Oggie. See you tomorrow, Regina.” Emma offers with a smile, popping down off of the stool and squeezing through the crowd.

August groans at the name, tossing the rag at her as she leaves and missing, calling out, “Say hi to Henry for me!”

Neither August nor Emma notice the way Regina frowns at the mention of Emma’s son.

“Will do!” Emma tosses behind her shoulder. Between the stifling heat of the room and Miss Sex On Legs she’d just scored a job from, she can’t take too much more of this place.

Emma gets a text from August later when she’s wolfing down burgers with Ruby, Neal, and Henry.

_You’re welcome._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I wasn't a 4H kid, and I wasn't raised in a town quite small enough to warrant learning how rodeos work, so any and all technical pieces of this fic will be researched as thoroughly as I can manage. 
> 
> In any case, I look forward to your thoughts!


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